


Vanilla

by Yina_Ke



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Domesticity, Implications of canon past abuse, M/M, Prompt Fic, snarky isaac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yina_Ke/pseuds/Yina_Ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They even use the same soap now, some vanilla-scented thing that his mother keeps buying and that consistently tricks Scott’s brain into thinking that he can smell Isaac on his skin all day, and himself on Isaac’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanilla

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to the prompt, 'Scisaac & naps' by tumblr user burningletter-.

Isaac shifts and Scott’s eyes fly open.

The air rebounds between them, heats Scott’s cheeks and chin. He’s facing Isaac’s chest, and he can see the way she muscles shift and re-align. Scott scoots back, raises his face to look at Isaac, and mumbles, “G’morning.”

“Morning,” Isaac says. He looks down and their eyes connect.

The curtains billow in the warm breeze streaming in from beyond the window, a few bars of afternoon light dappling on Isaac’s faces and shifting the shadows. He’s got a good face for the light, creases where the light can pool golden and sharp slopes where it can soak to darkness.

Scott’s used to waking up to a warm body by now. Isaac is usually awake before he is, greeting him with wide eyes. They sleep and then they wake up, and Scott rarely has any idea of what time it is.

So he asks. Or tries to. “… Time?”

“Something like five in the afternoon, maybe five-thirty,” Isaac says. He tilts his head up, eyes sliding to the side, searching for the alarm clock on Scott’s bed side table. “… Thirty-two, to be precise.”

“Huh,” Scott says, because he’s got nothing else to say to that. Isaac’s body radiates heat. Scott feels warm and pliant and sheathed in a cocoon of pleasant lethargy, and he moves a little closer, until their thighs touch and their chests align, and he closes his eyes again.

Dredges of sleep still linger along the window frame of his consciousness, beckoning him down. He could easily go back to sleep, take another nap and then wake up again with Isaac before him and against him and those eyes peeking down at him, and he’d be in this very same position.

Something in that sentence sparks his mind back. He opens one eye, and then the other, until he’s back to looking up at Isaac and stupidly blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Hey,” he says. “So, um – this has been on my mind for a while now. And, you know, I’m packless and all and I don’t really know the correct werewolf protocol or anything like that, and I do know actual wolves sleep in big piles – they do, right? Or’s that dogs? _Anyway_ , what I’m trying to ask is, is this, um, what werewolves, like,  _do_?”

Isaac lets the words sink in. He raises one eyebrow, and Scott notices how it changes the entire symmetry of his face, how the light skips along the new creases along his forehead. Isaac’s upper lip curls and then he says, “Are you asking if I slept with  _Derek_ like that?”

"Well. You’re the one who actually lived with another pack, you’re the first other werewolf I’ve lived with, I really just don’t…”

He used to wake up with Allison, wet and sticky and sated and with his heart beating so fast it may have bruised his rib cage. He used to sleep with Stiles when they were children, starting from that one time after Stiles brought home  _Poltergeist_  on VHS and they spent the entire night clutching on to each other while mutually pretending to only be comforting the other, and lasting during the entirety of Stiles’s zombie movie phase after that.

He’s never slept with anyone the way he sleeps with Isaac.

“All animals gravitate toward their own, I guess,” Isaac says evenly. “Even us.”

“That – is not what I asked.”

The veins along Isaac’s neck pulse. Tightness settles into his jaw, makes it lock. “ _Of course not_. Of course I didn’t sleep with Derek like that.” Something in his eyes gives way, and his voice falls, falls, and he says, “Why?”

Scott senses the shift in Isaac’s mood. Guilt tightens his stomach. “I didn’t, I didn’t mean to imply I didn’t  _like_  it – I do, I really do. I guess I was just wondering what it, like, meant. In the grand scope of things.”

They sleep together, they wake up together. They even use the same soap now, some vanilla-scented thing that his mother keeps buying and that consistently tricks Scott’s brain into thinking that he can smell Isaac on his skin all day, and himself on Isaac’s.

Scott’s getting fluent in Isaac-code, good at deciphering the meaning behind his body language. He’s used to the Isaac that is close-faced and blanched, with the secrets shuttered tight behind his eyes. He’s used to the one with the narrow, slanted grin that tugs up his lips at one corner and drags them down at the other. Has learned what Isaac’s thinking about when his eyes cloud over and his lips thin into a line and his shoulders draw in.

Mostly  _always_  knows what he’s thinking, but just not with this.

“It doesn’t  _have_  to mean anything,” Isaac says, a note of mulish petulance clinging to his words. “And what the fuck do you mean by a ‘grand scope of things’ anyway?”

“Dunno, they use it in English class a lot,” Scott says. “’S maybe too early for this conversation?”

“Too much blood in the coffee stream.”

“Dude, you don’t even  _like_  coffee,” Scott says, and he can’t help but break into a wide grin. “Plus, caffeine doesn’t even work on us, and  _plus_ , hey, if I were the sneaky type, trying to talk to you first thing in the, well, afternoon would be make a very fine strategy.”

“You’re not. The sneaky type. You’re  _Scott_. Besides, I haven’t been —” Isaac looks like he’s on the edge of saying something more, eyes dancing this way and that and everywhere. Scott’s eyes trace a curl of hair, and it’s only when Isaac’s eyes snap back to focus on him that he realizes he hasn’t just been  _looking._

Isaac’s hair slides through his fingers. Scott presses the tip of his fingers against the skin beyond, rubs little circles there. Scott  _hears_  the blood rushing to Isaac’s face.

The barrier at the back of his throat recedes, long enough for Scott to say, “Just tell me.” It’s not a request.

Isaac’s eyes have a weight to them. The air between them thins and thrums.  _Sings_ , even, with the sound of their combined rushes of blood interjected by scratchy pulls of saliva down parched throats.

When Scott shifts closer, he smells vanilla.

“When I sleep with you,” Isaac says, and his eyes dart away. “When I sleep with you, I don’t —” His eyes finally fall back onto Scott, and he finishes with, “I don’t have nightmares.”

“Oh.” Scott licks his lips. Then he licks Isaac’s.

They taste of heat and spices and something else, and Scott doesn’t realize he’s doing it until he’s already pressed up against Isaac, fist already tight around his hair, mouth already open and panting. A jagged breath draws from Scott’s throat that’s echoed by Isaac. The air between them simmers. Scott just inches closer and closer, as if he could just make everything all right if he just got close enough, as if every wrong could be burned away by the heat of a body and the fever of a wish.

Maybe he can’t  _make_  anything right. This, though, this in itself, the way they’re kissing and touching, the way their hearts speed up in an entwined crescendo, all this just feels right and natural enough.

“So, not all werewolves who live together do  _this_ , I take it,” Scott says against Isaac’s lips. “Or do they?”

Isaac gives a breathless chuckle against Scott’s mouth. “I think  _that_  pack would rather exacerbate my nightmares, don’t you think?”

“Point,” Scott says. “Okay, I already sort of figured that already by now, I just wanted to hear it, you know?”

“All I know is that no one should look this happy when they’re discussing crippling nightmares, you know?” Isaac says.

Scott can feel that Isaac’s teasing him, that it’s just Isaac being sarcastic, a flash of his peculiar sense of gallow’s humor, but the thought just makes him somber enough for his features to fall. “Uh, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to imply that this was the most important thing I took away from this conversa –  _hmmph_.” He draws in his breath sharply when Isaac kisses him, hard and blind. “Hmm.”

“Good?” Isaac asks, and he gives Scott a smile. Not one of his sarcastic one, but one of his rare true ones, one like a sunburst.

“Good,” Scott confirms.

He’s gotten used to waking up with Isaac, used to going to sleep with Isaac. He’s gotten used to the fact that Isaac is picky when it comes to toothpaste, that he likes to toy with candle wax like a curious child when no one’s looking, that he takes personal offense to losing at poker. That sometimes he’s just so used to fighting that he puffs himself up and sharpens his words and strains himself to look bigger, that his words can be bitter or sweet, sometimes in the same sentence. Scott’s used to it all.

He’s just thinking that it’s not going to take much for him to get used to  _this_  too when he realizes he already has.

**Author's Note:**

> .... I just love how this is the third fic I've written for this fandom and that that also makes it the third pairing I've written for. I'm officially incapable of _not_ multi-shipping. Hah, this glorious fandom. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read and liked and offered comments on my last bits. The response in this fandom has been amazing so far! ♥


End file.
